In the end all you want is a pen that writes well and a life that you've lived well…

evening: low again

fragile, the strands that you pull
out of my hands and dance, carefree
as if all you needed was this spring
but I am reduced to a sigh that
breaks free, from my chest but I
fall down again and sigh again
I really don’t want to cry again
For the evening, quieter than a sob
pours in through the dirty window
yellow, and mellow, and low again
I think the world’s getting slow again
when fingertips feel the soft heart beat
I dread we are going to die again…

Every place in every moment is potent with a zillion stories, pictures, poems, music of life and death. I am trying to find my way across the unfathomable ocean of experience and sometimes, I dive into the depths for sunken treasures and dark mysteries. I write. I take pictures. I make music.